nd where on earth _is_ Imatra?" ask I innocently.

"Oh come! you don't mean to say you've never heard of Imatra? Why,
everybody knows it. Let's go there next week."

Nevertheless, it so happens that I have _not_ heard of Imatra--an
ignorance probably shared by most people out of Russia, and perhaps not
a few in it. But I am destined to a speedier acquaintance than I had
anticipated with the famous waterfall (or "foss," as the natives call
it), which, lying forty miles due north of the Finnish port of Viborg,
close to the renowned "Saima Lake," attracts the amateur fishermen of
St. Petersburg by scores every summer.

The proposed trip comes at an auspicious moment, for St. Petersburg in
July is as thoroughly a "city of the dead" as London in September or
Chamouni in January; and the average tourist, having eaten cabbage-soup
at Wolff's or Dominique's, promenaded the Nevski Prospect and bought
photographs in the Gostinni-Dvor (the Russian Regent street and
Burlington Arcade), witnessed a service in the Isaac Church, and perhaps
gone on to Moscow to stare at the Kremlin and the Monster Bell, must
either await the approach of winter or fall back upon the truly British
consolation of being able to "say that he has been there." Then is the
time for suburban or rural jaunts; for picnics at Peterhof and drives to
Oranienbaum; for wandering through the gardens of Catherine II. at
Tsarskoe-Selo ("Czar's Village") and eating curds and cream at
Pavlovski; for surveying the monastery of Strelna or the batteries of
Cronstadt; or, finally, for taking the advice of my roving friend and
going to Imatra.

Accordingly, behold all our preparations made--knapsacks packed,
tear-and-wear garments put in requisition, many-colored Russian notes
exchanged (at a fearful discount) for dingy Finnish silver[D]--and at
half-past ten on a not particularly bright July morning we stand on the
deck of the anything but "good ship" Konstantin, bound for Viborg.

Despite her tortoise qualities as a steamer, however (which prolong our
voyage to nearly nine hours), the vessel is really luxurious in her
accommodations; and were her progress even slower, the motley groups
around us (groups such as only Dickens could describe or Leech portray)
would sufficiently beguile the time--jaunty boy-officers in brand-new
uniforms, gallantly puffing their _papirossi_ (paper cigarettes) in
defiance of coming nausea, and discussing the merits of the new opera
loud enou